


Paper Dreams

by peony_lilac



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ben and Rey need a hug, F/M, Notewriting, Soft Ben Solo, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25173826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peony_lilac/pseuds/peony_lilac
Summary: She likes his kind words. She likes how he bites his lip while he writes them. She likes the shy little glances he sends her way when he thinks she’s not looking. Well, she quite likes him.OR: Ben frequents a coffee shop and instead of talking to the barista, he writes her notes thinking she'll never read them. Little does he know she collects each one.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 35
Kudos: 154





	Paper Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Prompt is from twitter: 
> 
> Socially anxious Ben visits the same cafe every morning & he's fallen for sweet waitress, Rey. Everyday he writes down a lovely thought about her, folds into a boat and leaves it behind to be swept into the trash.  
> He doesn't know that Rey has kept every single one.
> 
> I couldn't get the tweet to link, but others have written some great pieces for this prompt so keep your eyes peeled!
> 
> Comments and Kudos always appreciated!
> 
> UPDATE: this may be a bit silly but I've received a lot of really nice feedback for this piece, and as a person who just got started with creative writing, it means the world. Thank you to each an every person who reads this story!

In his mind he imagines his notes to be almost like messages in a bottle. Simple words written down on little scraps of paper, left behind on his table; sentiment forever floating in the air. He tries to tell his therapist that they’re _nothing._ Just short sentences he’d like to say but honestly don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. When he writes them it’s because he cannot find the willpower to tell the cat that has his tongue to _let it the hell go,_ and so it’s better he put pen to easily discardable paper rather than attempt to find his voice.

So, he writes his words down, on napkins, straw wrappers, an extra receipt. And if he’s feeling daring, in his notebook because sometimes something compels him to _keep_ his words. But that rarely happens. He doesn’t want to be selfish with her. Towards her. About her. The verbiage doesn’t matter because the fact is, she’s too effervescent to drag down. Which is why he tells his therapist: _No Joan; it would be a bad idea to strike up a conversation with her. Because Joan, he’s just some patron at the café she works at. Not to mention, Joan, she’s smiles and yellow and mismatched socks while he’s pursed lips and variations of charcoal and one short leap away from anxious breathing if he can’t find his predetermined pair of footwear for the day._

So, writing the things he notices about her, questions he has for her, little quips he’d like to make to her all get expressed through the old fashioned (and definitely not at all cowardly) way.

And each time he leaves his spot by the corner window overlooking the quiet sidewalk and river embankment to continue his day, a waitress named Rey comes to clear his table. She normally picks up his mug in one hand while using the other to stuff his notes into her pocket, keeping them safe before she can get home and add them to her collection in a shoebox under her couch. She likes his handwriting. She likes his kind words. She likes how he bites his lip while he writes them. She likes the shy little glances he sends her way when he thinks she’s not looking. Well, she quite likes _him._

___________________________________________________________________

His first visit to _The Cantina_ is pre-empted by Joan telling him he should try and be around people more. _You don’t have to talk to anyone Ben, but allow yourself to feel part of the crowd, not removed from it._

His eyes slowly assess the interior of the shop. Clean white walls meet floating raw wood shelves, large glass jars of coffee beans sit on almost every surface. Tall stools, short stools, individual tables, and one long, large industrial family-style table fill the space, crowding but still somehow allowing the patrons to breath. A few oddly shaped and patterned chairs sit towards the back of the shop ( _eclectic,_ his brain supplies). For all the white, raw wood and steel, there seems to be twice as much green. Succulents litter the window spaces, corners are filled with cacti and potted grasses, and hanging air plants seemingly make-up every square foot of space above his head. The entire effect is nice, if not a little excessively bright.

There is no line at the register, which also has a lack of someone manning it, so Ben lumbers to a free corner table to drop his bag before going to the counter. The menu, written haphazardly on a chalkboard, is filled with artisanal sandwiches, house-made kombucha and elaborate tea blends. He’s questioning the merits of a Carrot Cake Rooibos when something in his orbit alters his gravitational pull.

The before empty counter becomes nosily (and messily) manned by a young woman skidding to a halt. She brings with her a bomb of flour. A cloud of which has permeated the air around her, the particles catching the light and creating a sort of halo. The white powder rests atop her black baseball cap, almost like a dusting of fresh snow, before being flung into the air as she inelegantly shakes her head to and fro. Flour bursts from its resting place, puffing onto the counter and coming to rest across her face, forming little white freckles blending in with the multitude already present.

But Ben stands still, mouth slightly agape as he watches a grin form on the girl’s lips, rapidly tugging her face into the single handedly most beautiful image he’s ever seen. And then she laughs. Not a short tinkling sound, but a deep, unconcerned chortle from within her very being. Her hazel eyes scrunch up, her toothy grin beaming at him, beckoning him to join her mirth. More flour leaps from her head as her shoulders begin to shake.

He’s helpless. He’s having a holy experience watching this woman laugh away her little conundrum. His hands tingle and his ears are so foggy that when she asks for his order the only thing he can blurt out is “Chamomile,” before paying and rushing back to his table.

When she floats over to him a little while later, holding a delicate porcelain tea-cup and saucer, he makes a noncommittal “hmm,” keeping his head down and toward the window, hoping his hair stays in place enough to cover the tips of his ears, which he knows are red. He finally glances up when she murmurs a quiet, “Enjoy” and glides back to the counter, picking up a rag to clean up her mess.

He leaves his first note that day. Pulling out one of his too expensive pens he writes his thoughts on the napkin in front of him:

**I admire your ability to laugh at yourself. And what a beautiful sound it is.**

He leaves the napkin on the table; confident his words will be part of the unvoiced thoughts swirling in the atmosphere every day. He misses the way the waitress comes to clear his dishes, eyes widening at the words on the paper. With a shaking hand she picks it up, turning to the window to watch the broad back of the man with dark hair leaving. Her toothy smile makes a reappearance as she pushes the napkin into her back pocket.

______________________________________________________________________

He writes a note every time he frequents _The Cantina,_ which happens to be every day because according to Joan: _If routine helps ground you Ben, build a routine._ And so, jotting down quick sentences pertaining to his perfect barista becomes part of his routine as well.

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s a Friday afternoon and Ben has just sat down at his regular table with a cup of peppermint tea when the bell above the door chimes. In walks, no _waltzes_ , a rather pompously dressed man: red hair coiffed with an obscene amount of gel, shoes in no need of polish, and a curl to the upper lip that reminds Ben of a grumbling pit bull.

The aura of “entitled prick” wafts from the man’s form, carrying him to the register. His waitress, Ben’s waitress, _the waitress_ perks up behind the counter, cheerfully taking the man’s order, although her smile vanishes as she sets about making his most likely too complicated drink. The attempted seductive pout and blatant leering by the man gives no question as to what’s happening. Ben’s thinking of potential ways to draw attention to himself to save the poor woman, but as she goes to hand the man his drink, her other hand falls to the counter, clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

His next note is written on the outside of a gum wrapper:

**My money is on you in any fight.**

______________________________________________________________

Ben’s not known for liking music, other than Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Concerto, but his opinion may be swayed by the performance he’s witnessing. A sleepy Sunday in February means few customers, which means his waitress can wear earbuds while sweeping the floor. Or rather, block the outside world and enjoy her own little concert.

The sight before him is filled with little sashays accentuated by twirls on what he hopes is the beat. She hops from one foot to the other, swinging the broom and strutting like Mick Jagger, all to the tune of what he thinks is Whiney Houston’s “How Will I Know;” but he’s not able to discern lyrics, more so charmingly inelegant “nuh uh uh-ing.”

He’s just about to start packing his things when the song must come to the climax, for the waitress lets out a surprisingly masterful riff. Gliding up and down sharps and flats as if she was born to do it. _Oh._ She can _sing._ A grin pulls the corner of his lips. His waitress has made the impossible possible, Ben has now actively enjoyed a pop-song. _Well,_ he thinks, _that should be rewarded._ What’s that tv singing competition again?

**Even Simon would vote for you.**

__________________________________________________________

Ben’s about ten notes in when he finally learns her name. It’s a bright Wednesday morning, sunlight catching flakes of snow as they fall from tree branches when he hears a delighted shriek and a low rumbling laugh. His window is slightly frosted over and he’s admiring the pattern, sipping a London Fog when he perks his head up to see his waitress fling herself into the arms of another man.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. It would be a ridiculous thing to be, seeing as he doesn’t even know her name and he’s never had a conversation with her outside of his head and pieces of paper. But there’s something burrowing underneath his rib. A sticky tension that closes over his heart and makes him wonder if, in a different world, she could ever be that excited to see him. But he blinks the dream away, rubbing the sore spot on his chest as his heart constricts for another reason.

The voice of the man grunts out a jokingly disgruntled “Rey” and when his waitress untangles herself from his torso, it finally computes in Ben’s head that that’s her name. _Rey._ Oh. He tries the name over his tongue, liking the way the word brings out the feeling of sunshine he always has in her presence.

Ben glances up again, finding the man curiously looking at him with a red-faced Rey standing by his side. He hurriedly returns his gaze to the window, blood pounding in his ears at being seen by someone. And not only someone, but the man _Rey_ was so delighted to see.

Staring out across the river, Ben misses the way the man bumps Rey’s shoulder with his own, waggling his brows. As he turns to a torn edge of his receipt to write his next note, Ben misses the way Rey’s eyes take-in his own form, lingering on his hands and profile, a flush spreading up her neck before her companion drags her to an empty table declaring she tell him, “Everything, Peanut!”

**I’m ashamed to say I only just learned your name. But it was worth the wait. Rey. I’m Ben.**

__________________________________________________________

On a Saturday in early March the staff holds a competition for new cookie recipes. Rey is teamed up with a petite Asian woman, whose name he catches as “Rose.” The duo seems far more interested in eating their raw concoction than winning the contest, and by the time both teams’ trays are baked, the girls only have 3 finished products to present.

They’ve created a white chocolate, orange macadamia nut cookie, that, if on the menu, Ben would be interested in. He’s so sick of overly chocolatey things that a splash of citrus would be refreshing. Rey seemingly agrees for she continues to attack her mixing bowl with a fervor he’s only previously seen with dogs and milk bones. She tips the bowl over her head and comes up with a satisfied lick to her lips, causing Rose to break into giggles. He’s enraptured by the glint in her eye.

He writes a selfish note to her this day.

**I’d miss seeing your face if you had salmonella.**

**____________________________________________________________**

Rey’s demeanor changes in the middle of March. Instead of her usual smile lines and laughter, she sports purplish lack of sleep bruises under her eyes and weary sighs. Rose doesn’t work anymore, and Ben knows that this is part of why Rey is rundown.

Losing friends is never easy, not that Ben would know, most of his companions are literary, but the thought of never having that comforting presence again makes him want to curl into a ball. So, on her particularly bad days, when even a twitch of her lips seems too much energy to expend, Ben offers his own awkward smile.

The first time he ventures into this kind of territory is an early Wednesday afternoon. He’s just ordered and sat at his table when she comes by with his jasmine tea. She sets it down in front of him, giving a barely audible “Here you go” when he turns his head and twerks the corners of his lips up.

When he meets her eyes it’s to see that they’ve widened ever so slightly, flickering between his mouth and own amber orbs. The longer she stands, the more self-conscious he becomes. Maybe the smile looks too awkward. He feels awkward. And he knows his teeth aren’t perfect, there’s some that are too pointy and crooked. He can’t help the way his lips begin to turn down, hunching his shoulders to shroud the cup she just placed in front of him, effectively wilting. But something in his gut tells him to look at her again, just one last time to see if his effort helped in some way.

On her face is nothing near the grin of pure joy she used to have, but it’s no less radiant. Her eyes have softened, crinkling ever so slightly at the corners while her cheeks lift in a way that offers comfort, rather than mirth. The tug of her lips isn’t a lot, but it’s _enough._ And to Ben, it’s _everything._

She leaves his table after that, but he finds himself continually glancing over to her, both hoping and dreading catching her eye again. A couple of times they do make contact, her smile becoming brighter each time they find one another. (In part, unbeknownst to him, because every time she catches him his ears tinge the loveliest shade of pink from beneath his hair).

That night, when Rey adds his note to the collection in her shoebox, she can’t help but release a few tears, overwhelmed with the thought that this kind, sweet, quiet man, her Ben, could see her so well.

**You don’t owe the world your brightness, but my world is a little darker without your smile.**

____________________________________________________

While their interactions have increased to small smiles and barely audible “Hello’s,” Rey steadily continues an energy deficit.

The marks under her eyes become more pronounced and there’s an aura of defeat that Ben thinks doesn’t belong on her delicate shoulders. He starts wishing more fervently that he had the courage to tell her the words he writes rather than having them be on paper, but his nerves and anxiety get the best of him.

She’s passing by his table on an early April morning, just having brought someone their coffee, when his throat closes at the soft words she utters.

“I’m nobody.”

She continues past him, not making eye contact, while a piercing cold ravages his stomach. Its icy hands claw its way towards his chest, freezing his airways while he tries to make sense of her statement. The idea that the world has hurt this woman reignites a fire in his veins. The cold he previously felt instantaneously switches to unbearable heat, flames licking at his neck at the thought that Rey has been made to feel invisible. He watches her move about the café, lethargically cleaning tables and tripping over her own feet.

He tears into his bag, grabbing a leather-bound journal and ripping out a page. Uncapping his pen, he continues to gaze at her, the way her eyes droop and hold a telling shine, how she bites her nails, and the way her shoulders meet her ears whenever she encounters a customer.

The words come to him without volition, he doesn’t know he’s written anything until he glances to his paper:

**You’re not nobody. Not to me.**

**You’re not alone, Rey.**

Every time he’s left a note it’s been with an understanding inside himself that no one would see them, that his words would remain in the air, felt but unsaid and unacknowledged. This one is different. Rey needs to know that she’s seen. That her presence holds great significance.

And so, when he stands to leave the café, he sets the paper down methodically, looking up to find Rey watching him from behind the counter. He shuffles himself into his coat and keeps her gaze while he pushes in his chair. She’ll come by in a little while to clear the table, and as he holds her eyes, he deliberately looks down at his note then back to her, tilting his head to the side as he throws her a grin.

He leaves the café that day with a ball of nervous energy inside his stomach, but peace in his heart.

________________________________________________________

Ben debates never going back to the café. What had seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment now seems so foolishly stalkerish that he wants to stay in bed forever. But, after having an emergency session with Joan where she tells him: _I’m proud of you,_ Ben decides that he is strong enough to go and potentially embarrass himself further.

And so, as he walks into _The Cantina,_ he’s surprised to find two new baristas working the counter. His heart constricts in panic. _What if he scared her away? What if something happened. What if……if…..if…._

It’s muscle memory by now for him to turn to the left and head towards his corner, and he’s about halfway there, locked away in his own mind, before he realizes that the face he’s so worried about is blinking back at him, a barely there grin on her lips.

Ben hesitates, knowing that this is _deliberate._ He’s either about to be punched in the face or -- well, he doesn’t see a nicer option than that. He approaches the table with trepidation, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and when he finally reaches the opposite chair, he’s certain he’s shaking like a leaf. But her eyes are kind, something he wasn’t able to discern from the entrance, and so he sits down.

As he does, he notices at least thirty loose-leaf scraps of paper on the tabletop. His registers his handwriting and heat immediately floods his face. His eyes lock on the one closest to his chair, his most recent note.

**You’re not alone, Rey.**

He’s too scared to look back up at her. Certain now that, even if her eyes are kind, it’s because she’s going to let him down easy. He’s too mortified at being _caught_ that he misses her pull out a sticky note. He misses her writing something down. He misses her ripping it off the pad.

He _doesn’t_ miss her placing the new note in front of him.

This is the moment Ben will come back to when reminiscing about big life changes. How these four words ignited something inside his soul that he would never want to be without again. How his eyes watered at the thought that this perfect creature in front of him could _see_ him. How his heart feels like it had started beating for the very first time. How she took his hand laying on the table into her own and squeezed his fingers with an intent that screamed _I won’t let go._

And how, when he looked up to her face again, eyes taking in her beaming smile, dancing freckles, chestnut hair and general aura of _goodness,_ his own face broke into a fault line he’d never want to repair. A break of joy and happiness that only _Rey_ could cause. Because he knew she meant it when he read those four words on that lime green sticky note:

**Neither are you, Ben.**

**Author's Note:**

> They're so soft and I love them. I'm on twitter: @trrafficjam and Tumblr: peony-lilac. Stay healthy and safe everyone!


End file.
